My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  He considered the cost and the end result. If he really wanted to make the castle habitable, to make it a place he could live in, he would have to do something about power.

  He supposed other castles in England had been modernized— to the accompanying protests from the Preservation Three, no doubt—but he imagined that the cost was staggering. And if the cost didn't give him pause, the location did. He was a good fifty miles from the coast on roads that made fifty miles into two hours of travel, not one. Not that he minded camping, but he wasn't all that fond of being landlocked. He had very happy memories of his house on the sea.

  There was, however, a single thing that kept him where he was. He glanced at the doorway and smiled at the very person he'd been thinking about. Maybe thinking about his future could be put off awhile longer.

  Iolanthe had the same expression on her face she'd had last night when she'd looked through the costume book. Thomas could only hope that it was a look of happiness, not distaste.

  "Like it?" he asked.

  She walked in, stood in the middle of the room, and turned around, looking at everything as if she couldn't believe it.

  "Whatever you don't like can be changed."

  "Oh, nay," she managed. She sank down in the other chair near the window and looked at him. "Thank you. 'Tis more beautiful than I could have imagined."

  Well, that was enough for him. He sat back in the chair and watched her as she got up again and wandered around the room, peering into corners and frowning over modern contraptions that could be hidden behind armoire doors.

  And while he watched her, he decided that perhaps this was all he needed at the moment. There, in that room with just the two of them, was enough.

  "What are these?" she asked, pointing inside the armoire.

  "CDs," he said. "Music locked onto little disks." He rose and went to stand next to her. "Whatever kind of music you like. Scottish pipes, symphony, choral, country."

  She looked momentarily perplexed by the selection. "Choose for me."

  "Here's one with troubadour songs on it."

  "That should be interesting."

  He smiled. "Will you be critiquing the performance?"

  "Doubtless," she said as she stood back. "Though I daresay it can't be much worse than what I've heard over the years. Even Roderick tries his hand every now and again at some ballad or other."

  "Frightening."

  "Aye."

  So he put on the CD, then sat with her by the window while she alternately sang along or shredded the performance. And he decided that there, in that little room, they could perhaps make their own corner of the world and have some peace, free from the opinions of anyone who might care to offer them.

  "Ah, but they're very fine singers," Iolanthe said, when the CD was finished. "Put in another, won't you?"

  Thomas rose to do as she asked, then found himself bowled over by the three old ghosts from the inn, plus Duncan and Roderick. The Fop immediately cast himself down in Thomas's place.

  "I'll like it here," he said, picking a speck of imaginary dust off his immaculate velvet coat and settling quite comfortably into the chair.

  Duncan drew his sword, and Roderick vacated the chair with a sigh. Thomas resumed his place, then found the room filled with conjured-up chairs supporting far-too-comfortable ghosts. Well, perhaps peace and privacy would come at a premium. But then he met Iolanthe's eyes, saw the twinkle there, and found himself thinking that they might survive after all.

  And he studiously avoided thinking about the future.

  The present would have to be enough for him.

  Chapter 18

  Iolanthe sat in her newly fashioned chamber and looked about it in pleasure. She had several things to smile about, not the least of which was a door she could forbid anyone to pass through. Many over the past few days had stood outside knocking for what had seemed to her a shocking length of time. She had half suspected it was the comforts found within they sought and not her company that kept them so long at it.

  She had, of course, been very choosy about whom she allowed inside her chamber.

  There was one soul she knew came inside merely to be with her and 'twas to him she owed the comfort and peace of her chamber. Now that she had somewhere to go, she wondered how she'd survived so many centuries wandering about. She could sit in her chair and look out the window or demand that Roderick come turn the pages in her book of dresses for her, or listen to music that sounded as if an entire abbey full of monks were gathered in her chamber to sing for her ears alone. The marvels she had never known existed which she now called her own were overwhelming.

  As were the feelings for Thomas she couldn't ignore. Never mind that he'd built a chamber especially for her. Never mind that he was the brawest, most pleasing-to-the-eye lad she'd ever seen. Never mind that he was kind, generous, and seemingly had no other desire than to pass the greater portion of his days in her company. It was the way he said her name. As if she were the most beautiful, the most desirable, the most wonderful person he knew.

  As if he loved her.

  She rested her chin on her fist and stared out the window with what she was sure was a foolish smile on her face.

  Perhaps it had taken all those centuries of being alone to appreciate having someone to care for her. Not as Duncan cared, nor as Ambrose cared. But as a man who looked on her as a woman.

  A knock sounded, interrupting her musings. She sighed and called out for the soul to enter.

  Roderick walked through her door. He stopped in the middle of the chamber, looked at her, then pursed his lips.

  "Mooning over him!" he asked shortly.

  "And what if I am?"

  He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and shook his head. "I would ruin my reputation as a gentleman were I to give voice to my thoughts."

  "The saints preserve us from that."

  He looked at her darkly. "I predict disaster. Mortals and spirits were never meant to become entangled."

  His words made her briefly uneasy, but she shrugged them off. If the mutterings of a bejeweled peacock could unsettle her, then she wasn't worthy of her name. She was a MacLeod. MacLeods took risks, did not bemoan their fate, and were firm in their purposes. If she had decided that having an ... um ... association with Thomas McKinnon was what she wanted, then have it she would, and the skeptics be damned.

  "I understand the artist arrives on the morrow," Roderick said with a heavy sigh. "You'd best let me look at your gowns and give you my thoughts."

  She studied him in silence for a moment or two.

  "Dash it all, woman, I'll not lead you astray!" he exclaimed. "I have excellent taste. I would provide you with scores of testimonials, but I daresay we don't want to invite any of my fellows up here."

  "Or your scores of former lovers?"

  He pointedly ignored her remark. "You would find your lovely chamber overrun with card games, cigar smoke, and spilled drink. So, trust me on the merit of my word. I'll help you choose the appropriate gown."

  Iolanthe weighed the alternatives. She could select her own gown, surely, but what if she chose amiss? Thomas was no doubt paying an enormous sum to have this all done. And much as it galled her to admit it, she couldn't deny that Roderick was always impeccably dressed. Even though his personality left much to be desired, his attire did not.

  She sighed and rose. She didn't need to look at the book again to know what her choices were. She'd spent the past three days studying the bloody thing.

  One moment she was in her normal peasant dress, the next she was wearing the illusion she'd created. The first gown she made was Elizabethan in style, black in color. It was covered with lace and encrusted with jewels. Iolanthe held her hair up on top of her head and looked at Roderick.

  "Well?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Not your color. Too many baubles. The next?"

  The next one was a simple dress, purple, and quite modern in its style. It reached to the ground as a straight sheath
of material with all manner of sequins hanging from it. Thomas had called it a flapper gown. Iolanthe looked at Roderick.

  "Your thoughts?"

  "It should be burned. Try something else."

  She sighed and conjured up the final gown she'd found in the book. She had thought it the loveliest of them all, and it claimed to be from the proper period in time. How anyone had decided what a medieval wedding gown looked like, she wasn't sure, but given the fact that she hadn't attended all that many medieval weddings, she supposed she wasn't in a position to judge.

  The gown was dark blue with a sort of stitching done on the bodice in gold thread. The same thread outlined a subtle pattern on the rest of the gown as well. She looked down at her bare toes peeking from beneath the gown and decided that perhaps she would have to think about shoes as well. Then again, mayhap the painter wouldn't ask to see her feet, and she would be all right as she was.

  She took a deep breath to steel herself for Roderick's inevitable dislike, then looked at him.

  He was watching her with the most sincerely unlecherous expression she'd ever seen him wear. She held up part of her gown.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "Perfect," he announced.

  She held up a lock of her hair. "What should I do with this? Put it up?"

  "Wear it down," he said shortly. He practically leaped to his feet, then stared at her with an expression she couldn't decipher. "Wear it down. You'll steal his breath."

  "He'll need breath to paint," she said.

  "I was speaking of him, not his bloody artist. You'll steal his breath away. And if he doesn't go down on his knees before you and beg you to be his, I'll stir myself to learn swordplay and then find a way to remove his empty head from his shoulders."

  Iolanthe smiled before she could stop herself. "Then you like it."

  "Since when did you care what I thought?" he demanded, sounding mightily irritated.

  Since I found love, she started to say, then she realized just how true that was. She couldn't imagine anything more impossible, but it seemed as if everything about her was sweeter somehow. She treasured her friendships more. She suspected that she would even view the MacDougal with less animosity than she normally did. And it had everything to do with the softening of her own heart.

  Because of him.

  A knock sounded on the door, and she jumped in spite of herself.

  "Change," Roderick said. "Don't let him see you in that gown until the artist arrives."

  The blue dress vanished, and Iolanthe stood there in the dress she normally wore. And somehow, foolish though it was, she felt less.

  "You know," Roderick said slowly, "you don't have to wear just that."

  "Spoken by a preening peacock who changes his clothing upon the stroke of every passing hour," she said, stung.

  "What else have I to do?" he asked as he walked to the door. He looked back at her. "What else have you to do?"

  That said, he vanished.

  Iolanthe stood there, gasping from the slap of his words. She was still trying to gather her wits about her when Thomas opened the door and peeked inside. 'Twas all she could do to dredge up a false smile.

  "Good day to you, Thomas," she managed.

  He stepped inside the chamber. "Are you okay?"

  "I am well," she said, struggling to look as if she hadn't just had her pitiful existence rocked to the core.

  What else did she have to do but change her clothes?

  Love the man standing in front of her?

  "Iolanthe, why don't you come downstairs with me?" he asked. "I've got the computer up and running."

  "Ah ..." she stalled.

  "It'll be fun," he said, holding the door open for her. "I can show you hundreds of pictures of the ocean, both above it and below it."

  Ocean you'll never see, ye silly twit, said a vicious voice in her head. For you're too cowardly to go see it for yourself. Not that he'd want to take you anyway, uncouth and unlearned as ye are.

  "Iolanthe?"

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She felt rather than heard him cross the room to her. When he was standing not a handbreadth from her, she looked up into his beautiful face and found a bit of her own despair mirrored in his eyes.

  "Don't think so much," he said quietly.

  "But—"

  "Life is what we make of it, Iolanthe."

  She folded her arms over her chest. His words didn't help her any, but she supposed there wasn't really much he could say. Or do, for that matter. There, not a handbreadth from her, stood the most handsome man she'd ever known, one who apparently had at least a few fond feelings for her, yet there wasn't a bloody thing she could do about it.

  "Come downstairs," he said, stepping back and smiling. "It'll be fun."

  She wasn't sure fun was what she would have, given her recent insight into the uselessness of her own existence, but perhaps she wasn't served by thinking on it. Enjoying his company was far preferable to sitting in her chair, staring out the window, and bemoaning her fate.

  A fate she could not change.

  No matter how desperately she might have wished to.

  "The sea, Iolanthe," Thomas said, luring her after him like a fey spirit. "Come with me and see it."

  She followed him from the chamber only because she could do nothing else. In the end, perhaps he had it aright and looking at aught else would distract her. From the fact that she couldn't touch him. Or that she would never be held by him. Or bear him children.

  She felt a sob catch in her throat before she could stop it. He spun on the step below her and looked at her in surprise.

  "Iolanthe," he said in consternation.

  She shook her head and motioned for him to go on. " 'Tis nothing. Idle thoughts."

  "That didn't sound like an idle thought."

  "It was."

  He stared at her for several moments in silence, then smiled sadly. "Come with me, Iolanthe. Just come and look. It'll be okay."

  "It isn't your machine I fear," she protested. "I had other reasons—"

  "I know." He smiled briefly. "Believe me, I know."

  She looked at him and realized that he likely had some idea of what troubled her. Perhaps he shared her thoughts.

  Assuming, however, that he felt for her as she felt for him.

  She put her shoulders back. Well, if this was all they would have together, then it behooved her to make the best of it. As Thomas seemed to be doing.

  So she put a pleasant expression on her face and walked down the stairs behind him.

  His chamber with its trappings of business was comfortable enough, she supposed. It was nothing compared with hers, surely, which led her to believe that he had certainly selected the innards of her chamber with more care than his own.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  "Is it necessary for me to be?" she asked, sitting down next to him.

  He laughed. "Answer enough, I suppose. All right, I'll tell you what everything is, then we'll see what's on the Net."

  She nodded, hoping she didn't look as bewildered as she already felt.

  "This is my laptop," he said, pointing to a thin black box. "It's hooked up to this lovely monitor here, which is big enough that we both can look at it."

  The monitor was a white box of sorts with a shiny front in which Iolanthe could see her reflection. When Thomas turned on his laptop, the front of the beast sprang to life in a riot of colors. Sound flooded the chamber, along with several annoying beeps and whistles.

  "There are all kinds of programs loaded," he said. "Games, encyclopedias, learning tools. Math, spelling, reading. Whatever you could ever want, it's there."

  Reading. She heard that and nothing else. Not that anything about reading would do her any good, given the fact that she couldn't even spell her own name. She supposed Duncan could. She had always been surprised by the depths of his knowledge. He knew a handful of tongues, could figure sums in his head, and yet wield a sword with great skill. She wondered why he h
adn't married. He would have made a fine father.

  Then again, he'd been father enough to her over the years, so perhaps his gift for it hadn't gone completely to waste.

  "Okay," Thomas said, interrupting her thoughts. "Do you want to look at the ocean first, then what's in it, or the other way around?"

  "What's in it?" she echoed.

  "The fish. Whales, sharks, jellyfish." He grinned like a young boy let Jose with his father's finest stallion. "You name it, I can get you a picture of it."

  Iolanthe was surprised by how pleasing a thought it was to have Thomas at her disposal. Even more surprising was how genuinely, keen she was on the idea of seeing the marvels Thomas promised her. Perhaps 'twould be a day of pleasure after all.

  Night would come, of course, and with it too much time to think, but perhaps she would do well to follow his advice.

  Don't think so much, he had said.

  She wouldn't.

  Chapter 19

  Two days later, Thomas stood at the base of his tower and contemplated the incongruities of his life. First was his own mortality and its accompanying trappings. He looked at the little portable toilet that stood sentry a discreet distance from the finished tower and decided that it was not a good addition to the landscape. It definitely would have to go.

  In contrast to his own mortal frailties were the advantages of having a ghost for a girlfriend, and there seemed to be quite a few of those. All right, so girlfriend was probably pushing it. Companion? No, that wouldn't work either. Friend who was a girl? That was just as lame. No, he'd just have to call her his girlfriend. That's how he thought of her, and there was no use in trying to make it something it was too late to be. He was falling for her, hard, and there was no denying it.

  Which led him back to his original thoughts of the advantages that came with a girlfriend who was neither mortal nor from the twentieth century. One of those was eating with a woman who didn't pick at her dinner while claiming she was just a light eater. Iolanthe just didn't eat anything at all, and it didn't seem to bother her that he ate like a starving lumberjack.